


Forever Young

by nothandlingit



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothandlingit/pseuds/nothandlingit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something akin to panic rises up in his chest because he’s lived centuries and has always thought he’d have centuries more – promises of the long haul, of survival, they all flicker and fade until all that is left is his pale reflection in a fogged up mirror clutching the evidence of his age. Captain Swan post 5x06</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever Young

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote a message to myself to write a fic about Killian finding his first grey hair. And I giggled to myself because I thought it would be hilarious. 
> 
> And then I woke up and wrote this. It is angsty as hell. And I am sorry. 
> 
> Set after 5x06 and that gloriously broken look on Killian’s face.

_Do you really want to live forever?_

.

It is a moment of complete and utter weakness that has led him to this moment, heart beating fast and shame filling him as he stands outside Emma’s door and raises his fist against the painted timber. If he can just see her, just know that she still looks the same, smells the same, _feels_ the same, perhaps he can sleep. Perhaps he can distance himself enough to get a fucking grip. Because, as it is, she’s consumed every corner of his mind, every pore of his being. She is under every inch of his skin, outright destroying him with each act of betrayal against her light magic.

The darkness has consumed her, yes, but it has claimed more than one victim.

She opens the door before he can knock a second time, leaning casually against the frame like this is just an everyday visit. As though this isn’t ripping him apart.

“Killian,” she says. It’s not a greeting, merely a statement of his name, and it sounds so foreign to him. So clipped and sharp.

He breathes heavily, every word of anger disappearing from his mind and leaving him not knowing how to proceed because he honestly hadn’t expected her to open the door. He supposes he can take comfort in knowing that there is still a part of her that is open to him despite everything. Emma is still in this dark painted shell and he yearns for her.

“You look awful,” she continues when he doesn’t speak.

He scoffs realising he hasn’t bathed in a week, realising that it simply hasn’t mattered, that taking care of himself comes in very low on his list of priorities right now. He can feel the grit and grime upon his skin, layers of soil and dust. And he doesn’t care.

Still, when Emma eyes him carefully – picking apart his intent and coming up with the fact that he’s not here out of any trickery or ulterior motive – and offers him entrance into her house, he can’t refuse.

When she tells him that there are fresh towels in the bathroom he doesn’t hesitate.

Because he is weak. So _fucking_ weak.

He feels her eyes on him as he ascends the stairs, feels them burning on his back as he steps towards the bathroom. And he knows she is behind him the second she follows. He faces the mirror and she faces him and it doesn’t even occur to him to shut the door. There is something desperate in her gaze, something wanting and lust-filled. They’re playing with fire here, but it finally feels like he has some kind of control as he watches her face and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

There’s a tick in her neck, her pulse point speeding up as he pulls the material from his shoulders. He glances towards it for a second before flicking back up to her eyes. Those wonderful, expressive windows to her every thought. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he can read them.

He swallows, unbuttons his jeans and wins their game of chicken as she averts her gaze. Although, he’s not sure it could really be considered a win when all he wants is for her to keep looking.

She walks away from the bathroom. Still, he leaves the door open. Just in case.

The water is blackened as it swirls down the drain and he watches it with contempt, hating that darkness has taken over everything.

…

The towel feels soft against his skin and it smells like her. His heart aches for the days when they had shared their showers, their gentle moans bouncing off the cold tiles, her green eyes shining in the steamy room, their fingers twined together up against the glass as they had become one.

He pulls the towel from his hips and wipes it across the mirror, not shocked to see her standing behind him again.

Fuck, he misses her and she is _right there._

“Emma,” he starts, but she holds up a hand.

“Don’t,” she answers. And he understands. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

They’ve never been ashamed of their nudity around one another but he’s never felt more exposed and vulnerable than in this moment, her eyes drinking him in as though this could be the last time. He’s seen what the darkness did to the Crocodile, what it did to Belle. And, gods above, it _could_ be the last time.

Every time could be the last time he sees _her_. Every day he loses her a little more. Grasping at memories and wisps of dreams.

He wants to scream at her, cry over her, yell into the void about her, but all he can do is watch her as she bites her lip and refuses to say what needs to be said.

He sighs and focuses on himself in the mirror, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the grey pallor to his skin, the way his collar bones protrude just a little more than they did last week. The thing that really catches his attention, though, is a flick of light amongst the dark mass of his hair. He leans in closer to the mirror, his forearm resting on the porcelain of the sink as his fingers find the single grey hair. Something akin to panic rises up in his chest because he’s lived centuries and has always thought he’d have centuries more – promises of the long haul, of survival, they all flicker and fade until all that is left is his pale reflection in a fogged up mirror clutching the evidence of his age.

He doesn’t flinch when he feels her cool hand rest upon his, tugging it away from the single most terrifying thing in his life. She’s so calm, a polar opposite to his rapidly beating heart and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I have to admit, I used to think we’d be going through this together.”

Something in his heart breaks a little more, her words wrapping around his mind and seeping into his darkest thoughts. She has always been everything he’s wanted, everything he’s needed and he thought he’d have so much time with her – an endless infinity with which to love her so completely. And if they couldn’t have infinity, he sure as hell thought he would have the rest of this little corner of his life to spend living out by her side.

“We still can,” he whispers, meeting her gaze through the mirror as if turning his head that fraction of an inch and seeing her expression without the buffer of the reflective surface might make it all too real.

With a devastating finality, she shakes her head, “No we can’t.”

…

He realises that she had used her magic to clean his clothes while he’d been in the shower and doesn’t know how to take that sentiment. Her scent is in everything, driving him mad with memories of a time when they had so many quiet moments to share.

It’s when they reach her door and she tells him he can stay for the night if he wishes that he realises how quickly time is slipping through their fingers. He can see the locked door under her stairs over her shoulder and chooses to focus on that when he shakes his head.

Something in her jaw ticks and he knows that she understands his moment of weakness is over. That they have to return to being Killian Jones and the Dark One – enemies for centuries.

There’s something to be said for weakness though – while it exposes fragility and vulnerabilities to the world, it also exposes strength. Without thinking and without giving her a second to move away, Killian leans forward, cups her cheek gently and presses his lips against hers. It’s innocent, chaste, but it tastes of something familiar and, when he opens his eyes, hers are looking at him the way she had in Neverland – that strange mixture of wanting to stay and needing to go.

Yes, he feels in control now. He taps a finger against her nose and flashes her a quick smile, pulling away and leaving her standing on her doorstep, their cat and mouse dance continuing. “I’ll never stop fighting for us,” he says as he turns around and begins to make his way.

The words echo around her mind for a moment, bouncing off an old memory of a day on a horse, a day in a field of flowers when her mind was quiet and she felt so loved. Her eyes land on the white picket fence bordering her house and she lets herself smile for a second.

…

It is a moment of complete and utter weakness that has her standing at the mirror in her bathroom, a flick of the wrist changing her from dark leather and white hair to soft curls and a crown of flowers. Killian had loved her then, he’d held her close and just _loved_ her.

Leaning towards the mirror, she runs a hand through her hair, finding the single silver strand amongst the blonde. She lets her fingers play across it softly, thinking of a time when growing old had been her only option. But then she bites her lip and tugs the hair from the root, letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground as she flicks her hand and shrouds herself in her darkness once more.

It was a moment of weakness, yes. But that moment is over now.

…


End file.
